


to find where i belong

by andrewminyards



Series: i am made of memories [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion are Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parents, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Good Parent Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, POV Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, he also teaches her to fight, jaskier teaches ciri to play the lute, jaskier visits cintra, pre-relationship geraskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27030835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards
Summary: Ciri strums her lute the way Jaskier had taught her, beaming when she manages to play a chord. "Oh, this is fun! Jaskier, will you keep teaching me?”Jaskier’s smile softens with fondness. “Always,” he promises, pulling her into a gentle hug, and Ciri relaxes against him, feeling soft and warm and safe. She feels athome. “You’ll make a great musician one day. Now, play that chord again, and I’ll teach you another one.”*Jaskier visits Ciri in Cintra and teaches her to play the lute. Years later, alongside Geralt, he teaches her to fight.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: i am made of memories [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784458
Comments: 39
Kudos: 300





	to find where i belong

**Author's Note:**

> written for witchertober day 15: father
> 
> OOP this was NOT meant to be over 1k but here it is lmao
> 
> i'm a huge sucker for jaskier being a good dad so here's some of jaskier and ciri family fluff set before the events of the main fic when jaskier visits cintra, and another scene set sometime between chapter 9 and chapter 11
> 
> the geraskier is only background but ciri can SEE their pining and she's the only one with braincells here lmao, but she loves both her dads

“Here, position your fingers like this.” Jaskier’s voice, low and warm, washes over Ciri as he gently guides her fingers to press on the strings of her lute, crooking her fingers at an awkward angle. “Now strum.”

Ciri carefully runs her other hand over the strings further down the lute, letting out a delighted laugh at the harmonious chord that rings out. “I did it!” she cheers, strumming the chord a few more times, excitement bubbling within her with each successful chord, with each wonderful sound. 

“You did indeed, cub,” Jaskier murmurs fondly, reaching out to ruffle her hair, and Ciri lets go of her lute to fling her arms around his neck, beaming with joy. Chuckling, Jaskier brings her closer, and she bounces against him, unable to contain her happiness that she can finally play the lute. She can finally play the lute, like Jaskier.

Well, not really, since Jaskier is absolutely _masterful_ at playing the lute, his fingers creating the wondrous magic that is his music, and Ciri knows she definitely can’t measure up to him - but she’s getting there, and maybe one day she’ll be as good as Jaskier. Maybe one day, like him, she can bring joy to others the way he does, bringing cheer to their eyes and easing the tension from their shoulders, bringing life to a room with the power of his music alone.

Ciri wants to be like Jaskier - open, bright, vibrant, _alive_. Every time he visits, it’s a welcome reprieve from how stuffy the court is, how boring the other nobles are. Her grandmother tells her to behave, to act regal, to pay attention, but gods, being a princess is so _boring_. With Jaskier here, Ciri can have fun - Jaskier brings life to the dull halls of the castle, making the opulence of the walls less oppressive and more bright. He brings music to her life, brings stories of adventures, of heroes and knights and monsters, stories of the vast land of the Continent, far beyond Cintra. 

He’s so vibrant, so unlike everyone else Ciri has ever known, and she knows that she wants to be like him, wants to bring joy to someone else the way Jaskier does to her. He’s the only one who’s ever been _there_ for her - she loves her grandmother and she loves Mousesack, but they have their own duties, and Ciri gets lonely. But Jaskier - he’s wonderful, and despite his constant travels, he always finds time to visit, and Ciri loves him for that.

Her grandmother is family. Mousesack is family too. Her parents - well. They’re no longer with her, and her father never played a significant role in her life anyway. But Jaskier - Jaskier is _family_ , and secretly, Ciri thinks that he’s who she would want as a father.

Ciri trusts him more than anything. 

“I’m very proud of you.” Jaskier grins, stroking her hair the way he always does, the way only Jaskier has ever done, his touch gentle and caring, and Ciri beams wider, warmth bursting in her heart at the thought that she’s made Jaskier proud, that he’s proud of the music she’s made, that maybe, Ciri brings him joy the same way he brings joy to her. 

“One day I will be as good as you!” she exclaims, and Jaskier’s smile softens with fondness.

“Of that I have no doubt,” Jaskier says, blue eyes sparkling with gentle affection as he reaches for her lute and places it back in her hands. “Now, play that chord again, and I’ll teach you another one.”

Furrowing her brows in concentration, Ciri crooks her fingers the way Jaskier taught her, pressing them carefully on the strings, the memory of the warmth of Jaskier’s hand guiding her own lingering in her mind, and she brings her other hand up to strum tentatively at the strings. The same chord from a few minutes earlier rings out across the room, and Ciri feels a toothy smile split her face as she turns to Jaskier, vibrating with anticipation.

“I did it, I did it again!” she crows, the sound of the chord resonating in her ears, a reminder that she managed to create music the same way Jaskier does. “Jaskier, Jaskier, teach me the next chord! Please?”

“Look at you, cub! You’re very good at this.” Jaskier’s pride is plainly visible on his face as he leans forward to guide her fingers once again, changing their position on the strings. “Right, that was a C major chord. Now, let me show you an A minor chord.”

The day goes on like this, with Jaskier patiently coaching her through the most basic chords on the lute, and every time Ciri manages to play a chord exactly right, immeasurable joy fills her heart at the sight of the pride on Jaskier’s face and the warm affection in his eyes. Jaskier has brought her so much joy, and to make him proud - Ciri feels buoyant with happiness, with elation, that she’s made her _family_ proud. 

When Ciri’s stomach rumbles, loud enough to be heard over the twang of a G major chord, Jaskier gently pries her fingers from where they’ve been wrapped around her lute, setting the lute aside. 

“Time to eat,” he says, making to stand up, and Ciri pouts. Her fingers are tired and aching , the pads of her fingertips hurting from how long they’ve been pressing down on the strings, but she wants to play for longer, wants to learn _more_.

“Can you teach me a few more chords? Please, Jaskier?” Ciri pleads, widening her eyes and sticking out her bottom lip. Jaskier visibly falters, and Ciri inwardly grins, knowing that he’s so very susceptible to her whims whenever she does that. 

“Dinner first,” Jaskier says firmly, and Ciri widens her eyes just a little more, hoping to weaken Jaskier’s resolve.

“But I want to play!” She holds out her arms for a hug, and Jaskier pulls her into a gentle embrace. 

“Later,” he promises cheerfully, and stands up with Ciri still in his arms. She shrieks and clutches at him, even though part of her knows that Jaskier will never let her fall, knows that he’ll always be there to catch her. “Come on, cub. Let’s get some food, then we can play some more, okay?”

Ciri lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Fiiiine,” she whines, wriggling against Jaskier to get into a more comfortable position, then lays her head on his shoulder. “That was really fun, I think I really like the lute.”

She can hear the smile in Jaskier’s voice when he murmurs, “I’m glad. It’s fun to learn and fun to play, isn’t it?”

“It is!” Ciri agrees, watching the walls pass as Jaskier carries her through the halls. She grew up in these halls, and yet, Jaskier is the only one who’s ever made the castle feel like _home_. “Will you keep teaching me?”

“Always,” Jaskier tells her, a promise ringing in the depths of his voice, and Ciri relaxes against him, feeling soft and warm and safe. She feels at _home_. “I’ll always teach you if you ask, cub. Always. I’ll never stop.”

* * *

“Change your grip just a little, like this,” Jaskier instructs, palming his own dagger and showing it to her. “See?”

Ciri studies the way his hand grips the dagger, noting the way scars criss-cross his palm and run down his forearm, and she adjusts her grip on her own dagger, trying to imitate the way Jaskier holds it, like it’s part of her, like it’s an extension of herself. 

“Like that?” Ciri asks, casting a glance towards Jaskier. He’s studying the way she holds her dagger, golden eyes intent, and he reaches out to move her thumb slightly downwards, his fingers far more callused than she remembers. It’s familiar, the way Jaskier corrects the position of her hands, but Ciri is holding a dagger, not a lute. Violence, not music. And Jaskier… Jaskier is a witcher, not a bard.

Still, Ciri trusts him.

Once he’s done, Jaskier lets out a low hum of approval. “Just like that,” he affirms, and that familiar feeling of pride surfaces within Ciri, pride that she’s managed to do what Jaskier taught her. “Now copy me.”

He lunges forward, his movements careful and measured, swinging his dagger like it’s an extension of himself. That had been his lute, once. Something melancholic stirs in Ciri’s mind as she remembers the easy way Jaskier used to hold his lute, the way he handled it like it was a part of his body, the same way Jaskier handles his dagger now, his body moving with the weapon with ease and familiarity. 

It’s Jaskier, still. She knows this. He’s different, but still Jaskier. His hair is a bright silver, his face scarred, his eyes slit-pupilled and gold, but he looks at her with the same fondness, the same attentiveness, and he still holds her the same way, careful and gentle. Jaskier may be a witcher now, and his lute may be traded for deadly twin swords, but Ciri knows him, trusts him. 

He’s her family, after all.

When Jaskier nods at her, Ciri copies his movements, moving forward the way she’d seen Jaskier do, striking the empty air with her dagger. Her movements are clumsy and unpractised, so unlike Jaskier’s smooth grace, but Jaskier smiles at her anyway, faint but proud. 

“That was good,” he praises, and Ciri grins at him, elation making her feel light. “We just need to work on a few small things.”

Ciri nods, and Jaskier walks over, quickly adjusting her stance, his hands gentle as he adjusts the set of her shoulders and changes the angle of her arm, the way he had done once, when he’d corrected the angle of her fingers on the strings of a lute.

“Straighten your arm a bit more, place your whole body behind the blow, not just your arm,” Jaskier explains as he steps back, and Ciri is thrown back into the present. She blinks at the dagger in her hand before looking to where Jaskier is demonstrating the movement again, slow enough for Ciri to keep track. “Your grip on the dagger shouldn’t loosen - that’s a sure way for the enemy to disarm you.”

“Right,” Ciri mutters, and she tries again, the image of Jaskier’s smooth motion ingrained in her mind, the sound of a C major chord ringing in her ears. This time, her strike is less clumsy, less fumbling, and Jaskier watches her with approval in his eyes. 

“Better,” he murmurs, and Ciri bounces from one foot to another, shifting her dagger in her hand. “You’re doing very well, cub.”

Pride surges within her at the compliment. “All thanks to you!” Ciri walks closer to Jaskier, tugging at the sleeves of his armour, and he lets himself be pulled closer. “You’re a good teacher, Julek.”

Jaskier’s golden eyes go soft and fond, the way they do every time Ciri calls him by that name, that diminutive reserved only for her. “No, _you’re_ a good student,” he corrects, something self-deprecating in the bashful set of his expression, and Ciri shakes her head at him. 

There’s something less confident about Jaskier now - back when he was human, he used to hold himself differently, like he was aware of his own worth in the eyes of others, easy confidence in the way he walked and talked. Now, Jaskier moves like a witcher, like Geralt, but there’s something less confident in the way he talks, in the depths of his eyes, and Ciri’s heart _hurts_ for him. 

She thinks it probably has something to do with the fact that he’s returned to being a witcher, knowing that he used to be a human bard - their conversation in the cave had told her that. Ciri wants to bring that bright confidence back, wants to chase the doubt and insecurity that linger in his eyes, hating that she can’t help, hating whoever had made Jaskier feel that way. 

“You’ve always been a good teacher,” Ciri reiterates firmly, wrapping her arms around Jaskier in an attempt to reassure him. This position is familiar to her from years and years of Jaskier’s visits - Jaskier has always been tactile, and Ciri has always found comfort in his arms. Now, Jaskier stiffens imperceptibly before he relaxes, the way he does every time Ciri hugs him these days, and she wonders what the past year has done to him to make him stiffen underneath her touch like that, like he’s not expecting it.

Ciri vows to convince him of his worth, vows to convince him that he’s truly a good teacher, that Ciri won’t reject him, that Ciri still considers him her family. She can’t bear the way Jaskier sometimes flinches when being touched, the way he curls in on himself like he’s bracing for rejection, and Ciri hopes and hopes that she can make him _happy_ again, the way he’s always, always made her happy.

Jaskier hums, and he sounds so much like Geralt in that moment that Ciri can’t help herself from cracking a small smile. 

“What’re you smiling about, cub?” Jaskier asks, resting his chin on her head, and Ciri loves it, loves the safety and security she feels whenever Jaskier is around her, his touch grounding her, his familiar presence telling her that she’s safe, she’s home. Even now, her body pressed against rigid armour instead of a soft doublet, Ciri still feels safer here than anywhere else. 

How had she lived a year without Jaskier, alone in the castle without someone to call home? 

“You sound like Geralt when you do that,” she giggles, tilting her head up to look at him. Jaskier is looking at her warmly, the corner of his lips tilting up slightly in gentle amusement. “Gods, you look like him, and when you hum, you sound exactly like him.”

Jaskier laughs, low and rough, and Ciri feels herself light up. She’s missed Jaskier’s laugh - he does it so rarely these days, and when he does, it’s only a shadow of the way he used to laugh, bright and open, so Ciri cherishes every single time she manages to pull a laugh out of him, whether it’s a soft huff of a laugh or a small chuckle. When Geralt had told her that Jaskier was - that Jaskier was _dead_ , she’d cried and cried and cried at the knowledge that she would never hear Jaskier’s voice again, never hear him laugh, never feel the security and warmth of his touch.

She thought she’d lost her home. 

But Jaskier is here now, different than the Jaskier in her memories but still her Jaskier, the Jaskier who’d crept into her room at night to calm her down from a nightmare, the one who’d brought vibrant joy to the castle in Cintra, the one who’d always been there for her, the one who’d always taught her, patient and gentle. He’s still the only person Ciri feels truly at home with, and he’s her only family left, and Ciri will cling onto him tightly and never let him go.

She’ll _fight_ for her family. She can’t lose Jaskier again. 

“I speak a little bit more than Geralt, I hope,” Jaskier says, brushing his hand through her hair, as gentle as ever. 

“Everyone speaks more than Geralt.” Ciri rolls her eyes, and when Jaskier huffs out another laugh, her heart soars. 

“Are you two talking about me?” Geralt’s gruff voice asks, and Ciri jumps, twisting around to see Geralt emerging from the trees, a few rabbits in his hand. He’s looking at the two of them with a fond twist to his lips, something affectionate behind his stoic gaze when he looks at the way Ciri is clinging to Jaskier. 

Geralt gets this look whenever he sees Jaskier and Ciri together, whenever he sees how close they are, whenever he sees how Jaskier takes care of her, and sometimes, when Geralt thinks she isn’t looking, he looks at Jaskier with pure, unadulterated adoration and sweet affection. Like now, Geralt’s gaze has shifted up to meet Jaskier’s eyes, and they stare at each other for a moment before breaking eye contact. 

Ciri wants to _bash their heads together_.

Gods, she loves Jaskier, and she thinks she might come to love Geralt too, but they’re _idiots_. 

“Are you - uh -” There’s awkwardness in Geralt’s voice, unused to initiating conversation but clearly wanting to communicate with Jaskier, and Ciri can see how hard he’s trying to break through the walls Jaskier had erected. She wants to scream at Jaskier to _look at Geralt_ , to see how utterly sincere he is. “Are you teaching Ciri to fight?”

Before Jaskier can answer, Ciri interjects with an excited grin. “He is! He’s such a good teacher, Geralt!” She pulls herself out of Jaskier’s hold and grabs her dagger, holding it the way Jaskier had taught her. “See?”

Geralt’s eyes are warm in the firelight as he looks at Ciri, the same pride in his gaze as Jaskier had moments ago, then glances up to look at Jaskier. “Yes. He’s a good teacher.”

“He taught me to play the lute,” Ciri tells Geralt, who blinks at her, mouth parting slightly. “He’s really good!”

Jaskier has always been a wonderful teacher - patient with her, and kind, always gentle. In Cintra, he slowly taught her to master the lute over the course of his visits; now, he teaches her how to fight, how to defend herself every night, and he’s as patient and kind and gentle as ever, even if he doesn’t see it.

She wonders if Jaskier still plays the lute now. It’s nowhere to be found - its place on his back has been replaced by twin swords, one steel and one silver, and he hasn’t sung to her since he started travelling with her and Geralt. Ciri misses playing the lute, misses creating music with the motion of her hands, but Jaskier is teaching her to protect herself, to protect others, and she _wants_ to do that. 

She wants to help others, and she wants to fight well, wants to see pride dance through Jaskier’s eyes when she successfully executes a maneuver, wants to be like Jaskier, who fights to protect the lives of innocents, who fights to protect _her_ , and she’s determined to learn from him, to be like him.

Jaskier is a wonderful teacher, still. He’s teaching her something different, but Ciri cherishes his lessons all the same, and she wants to make him proud of her, the way he’d been proud when she played her first chord, when she played her first song. 

“I don’t doubt it,” Geralt agrees, a flash of sadness flashing through his expression before it disappears. He takes a step towards them, eyes flicking to the dagger that Ciri is holding in her hand, before taking a step back, towards the fire. “I’ll get dinner ready. You two can continue, if you want.”

Ciri turns back towards Jaskier, who’s regarding Geralt with unreadable eyes, and pokes at his arm, drawing his attention back to her. “Again?” she asks, brandishing her dagger, and Jaskier nods at her with a faint smile.

“Again,” he confirms. He reaches out to ruffle her hair, and Ciri wrinkles her nose up at him in pretend annoyance.

“Hey,” she mock-complains, and when Jaskier smirks at her playfully, she’s thrown back to Cintra for a moment, Jaskier by her side as their laughter had rung through the grand halls.

“Alright, alright.” Taking a step back, Jaskier flips his own dagger in his hand and tilts his head. “Show me that move again. Faster this time.”

Jaskier will always teach her what she knows if she asks. He made that promise to her years ago, and he’s keeping that promise now, as he teaches her to handle her dagger, teaches her to strike true, teaches her how to utilise her strength and agility. Ciri will listen to what he teaches, will hold them close to her heart, and she vows silently to make him proud.

She knows that he’ll always, always be here for her - he’s here now, when all of them are in danger, when the world has gone to hell, and Jaskier is _here_ , by her side. He’s her family, the closest thing Ciri has ever had to a father, and as Jaskier corrects her stance with gentle hands while Geralt watches them with tender affection from the campfire, Ciri knows that she’s found her family.

She’s found her home. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you like this, please check out the main series! i really love ciri's pov, so if i have time, i'll definitely write more!
> 
> come find me on tumblr at[@jaskicr](https://jaskicr.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
